


A Better Night's Sleep

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18351878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Prowl would just like to recharge, but Jazz is distracting even when he's already asleep.(Prowl discovers a surefire new cure for insomnia)





	A Better Night's Sleep

It's no use. Prowl has tried for nearly a joor now to ease his processor out of its looping and into a state conducive to recharge, but he remains stubbornly online.    
  
The issue is the defrag cycle his processor is trying to initiate to declutter his memory banks as he sleeps; it gets two terabytes along and then runs into a memory which activates his autonomics and awakes systems which deny him his rest.   
  
He squirms awake multiple times, vents open and hissing out hot air, panels pinging with warmth. Beside him, Jazz is dozing in a sprawled heap, visor still lit with a thin line of blue that glows brighter everytime Prowl wriggles in discomfort.    
  
Good, Prowl thinks petulantly. If he's not getting any rest because of this memory, then neither should Jazz; it is  _ his _ hips Prowl is remembering anyway, rolling slowly and obscenely in a dance atop Prowl's spike.    
  
His panels pop again at the thought; his engine rumbles and his vents ease open a little more. For a few moments, he tries to calm and centre himself but nothing is successful.    
  
So instead he reaches out and slides his digits along the tightly interlocking plates of Jazz' abdomen. Underneath his palm he feels the flex and release as the mech starts to wake, and then there is a warm body entwining against his like a python.   
  
"Ooh," rumbles Jazz, vocaliser husky with disuse. He hitches a thigh up further: it comes close to brushing Prowl's scalding interface panels and his frame trembles minutely. "You are running  _ hot _ , Prowler."   
  
"You keep appearing in my defrag cycles." He shivers as a nimble hand drifts down and strokes over the heat of his panel.    
  
"Mm?" Jazz shuffles as close as their frames will allow. "What am I doing?"    
  
Prowl's vocaliser stalls briefly. "Ah. That evening after Blaster's last party," he manages to squeeze out. "When you pushed me to the berth and-" Digits cup his interface plates and softly squeeze, driving friction down onto the protoform below. He cannot help the groan that echoes out of him.    
  
"I remember," sighs Jazz, as if recalling a fond memory rather than the last time he had ridden Prowl's spike until the mech had wept for mercy. "Got yourself all worked up, huh?"    
  
Prowl would like to say something about it being hard not to get worked up, remembering the slick clutch of mesh and calipers, which had squeezed and stroked his spike until he had lost count of his overloads and very nearly lost his mind, but he's starting to feel a bit delirious. The servo over his array relaxes for a second, just enough to let the plates transform back, and then his spike pressurises into the waiting grip.    
  
The noise he makes is not dignified.    
  
"Prowler," sighs Jazz, sounding sleepy and fond. He eases his servo up in a slow stroke, swipes his thumb over the tip to a thick rivulet of transfluids and then strokes back down to the very base of Prowl's spike. When he repeats it Prowl sighs, the slow pace delicious torture.    
  
"Jazz,  _ please _ ," he chokes. He's tired, he's over-charged and a good overload would solve both issues. And despite Jazz' willing participation, the field against his own betrays no sign of arousal, just the same fond affection that had coloured his voice. This is really just for Prowl's convenience, and therefore getting it over and done with would be preferable. He manages a garbled version of this, and Jazz chuckles softly.    
  
"Doesn't mean I can't make it good though," says Jazz. He slithers down the sheets and heaves his weight onto one of Prowl's thighs, bringing his helm to rest on the cushion of a hip plate. He strokes Prowl's spike again, watching up close the shift of the tight platelets over the thickened protoform, and Prowl feels the smile rather than sees it when he moans. "Let me make it good."   
  
And Jazz does. Prowl slumps into the berthfoam and whimpers as feather light touches trace the sensitive nodes around the base of his spike, where it pressurises from his rest of his protoform. Jazz seems to know the exact pressure to generate the best amount of charge from each node, and he plays Prowl like an instrument, barely even touching his spike and already getting him nearly worked up enough to overload.    
  
Prowl is just about to choke out a warning, when those digits slip away and brace against his protoform. The generated charge collapses back down and Prowl squirms.    
  
Jazz smirks against his hip, tapping his digits against the bottom of Prowl's abdominal armour as he waits patiently for a few nanokliks. By the time he moves his servo again, Prowl's charge has died back to an uncomfortable hum. This time he slides his servo upwards, pinioning Prowl's spike between two digits until he reaches the tip and can redjust his grip to his previous stance, slickening with the droplets of transfluid already leaking from the internal reservoir. He strokes in long smooth movements, gently pulling the platelets on the up stroke and then tightening then down over the shaft nodes on the downstroke. More fluid drips out as the seals loosen with the build of charge again, making the sensation wet and akin to the roll and squeeze of a tight valve. Prowl is about to groan in capitulation when the friction is abruptly dropped again.    
  
He is going to murder Jazz. Or possibly just die himself.    
  
"This is torture," he gasps. "Dear Primus!"    
  
"I thought you wanted a good night's sleep? I'll knock you  _ out _ , mech." Jazz shifts, slithering over Prowl's leg and into the gap between his thighs so he has better access for whatever he has planned in his cunning little processor. Prowl meets a sleepy but mischievous gaze when he looks up and his tac unit abruptly supplies him with a 96% chance of his torment continuing.    
  
He is accurate.    
  
Jazz presses a soft kiss to the tip of his lover's spike, glossa flicking out to taste the silvery droplet forming there. Prowl watches, wide opticed as he's slowly swallowed, platelet by platelet, his length cushioned by a wicked glossa. Jazz keeps his face upturned - his features easily visible and brightly lit by his own optics - and Prowl's gaze flicks between that bright visor and the smug curve of lip plates distorted by the thick length between them. The sight is almost as arousing as the sensation, as Jazz bobs his helm shallowly. It's delicious and agonising, feeling his charge build and knowing, just knowing, that at the penultimate moment Jazz will -   
  
_ Stop dead _ . Lips still pursed halfway down his length, grinning wickedly, the terrible little glitch. Prowl moans in desperation, and then chokes on his own vents when Jazz laughs around his spike. It's just not quite enough, and Jazz leans his weight on his hips to prevent him from thrusting up, so the charge dies away again.    
  
"Please," he whines, not caring he sounds petulant. "Jazz..."   
  
Jazz shakes his head and sinks his mouth down again, all the way to the base this time. Prowl's spike pierces through the valves at the back of his mouth and slips through into the intake tubing beyond, hot and tight and vibrating with the constant hum that purrs from Jazz' vocaliser.   
  
Prowl had thought he was being tortured before, but he had not know torment until now. Jazz lures him to the edge again and again and again, until he is writhing, clenching his fists and digging his heels into the foam of the berth to try to get any purchase for that last bit of stimulation. He's nearly sobbing by the last time, every sensor and fuse in his array sending him alerts, when Jazz finally has mercy.    
  
"Put your servos on my helm." When Prowl doesn't obey - too stunned by the last sudden stop and the buzz of his vocaliser so close to tender protoform - Jazz grabs one of his servos and clasps it around an audial horns. "Take what you want, love."    
  
It takes a moment to sink in, but when Jazz picks up his rhythm again, Prowl takes advantage. For every swallow down he presses a little further for longer, every stroke up is much quicker. Charge building, he moves a little harder and his vents pant to burn out some of the heat in his core. Jazz hums thickly in counterpoint to the slick noise of the spike sliding on his glossa and the pop of his intake valves being forced open and closed. His visor dims a little with focus of keeping rhythm, paying less attention to the build of Prowl's energies. This time when Prowl's charge starts the final ramp up, he doesn't stop, just lets Prowl continue to direct his mouth and movement.    
  
Overload crashes into Prowl, races from fuse to fuse and numbs the rest of his body, dropping away the constraining servo on Jazz' helm. Every pump of transfluid from his spike is scalding and beautiful, spilling into a welcoming mouth. Jazz' visor gleams brighter at the taste on his glossa, and he pulls back slowly, sucking every trace of transfluid away with every sign of enjoyment. Finally he separates with a filthy slurp and makes a show of licking his lips clean. Prowl can only stare and pant, processor overwhelmed with sensation and heat.    
  
The throb of his climax takes far longer to fade than normal, and as it does it leaves a pleasant hollow ache of hardwon exhaustion in its wake. He can just about stroke Jazz' cheek in thanks, feeling wholly depleted. Even if Jazz did seem keen for repayment Prowl didn't think he could have managed anything; as it is the mech just rearranges himself into a comfortable sprawl, half over Prowl's abdomen like a heavy blanket.   
  
"Feelin' sleepy yet?" Jazz purrs, apparently not caring when Prowl doesn't muster a response immediately. His visor is already dimming into the reflective black of recharge. "Sweet dreams, Prowler."    
  
Prowl has no option. The defrag cycle kicks in again, and there is not even a joule of charge to activate his array again. As his memory banks clear, his processor loosens its grip on the waking world and swiftly he's in a recharge cycle that not even a fusion cannon blast would wake him from.    
  
The last conscious thought is that he'll pay Jazz back in the morning. With interest.   


**Author's Note:**

> The next morning, as repayment, Prowl blows Jazz like a champion and then /does it again/ immediately after. 
> 
> Jazz needs another hour just to recuperate.


End file.
